


The Detective, the Sparrow, and the Angel's Wrath

by Skye_Writer



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Incomplete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skye_Writer/pseuds/Skye_Writer
Summary: A dead body in the Wester Drumlins house draws Sherlock and John to one Sally Sparrow, who seems to know more than she's telling about the dilapidated house.This work is PERMANENTLY INCOMPLETE. More information in the author's notes.





	The Detective, the Sparrow, and the Angel's Wrath

**Prologue**

A fresh mug of tea and a well-worn novel were all Sally needed for a quiet night in. She and Larry had closed the shop hours ago, and after dinner Larry had gone down to the pub to meet some friends. He’d invited Sally along as well, but she’d told him to go on without her. She could entertain herself for a few hours without him.

She was glad she was indoors now, too; a storm had blown in not long ago and judging by the amount of rain still beating against the sitting room window, it didn’t look to be stopping for a while. She glanced up at the window again, hoping Larry would make it back all right, then returned her attention to her book.

Her mobile rang.

She didn’t think anything of it at first. She marked her place and leaned over to pick up her phone from the end table. The number wasn’t one she recognized, but she tapped the screen to pick up anyway. “Hello?”

Silence.

Sally frowned, straining to hear the call over the sound of the rain. “Hello?” she asked again. “Who is this?”

She was about to hang up when a man’s voice said, “Sally Sparrow?” He sounded distant and confused, as though he didn’t quite know what he was saying.

“This is her,” Sally replied tentatively. “Who’s this calling?”

“Old friends.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Old friends, Sally,” the man repeated. “We’re coming for you.”

The line went dead.

Sally lowered her phone slowly, turning the man’s words over in her mind. She felt cold. Part of her wanted to panic, but what would that solve? The call could have been anything. It could have been a mate of Larry’s having a laugh, or some old acquaintance from university, pulling a prank at her expense. It could be anything.

She still went to the window and peered out at the rainy street.

One didn’t usually notice how many statutes populated a city like London unless one had a reason to, which Sally Sparrow certainly did. Nearly five years in the flat above their shop had given her time to memorize every shape and expression of the statuary on their street. As she stared into the dimly lit darkness, she could see nothing different. Nothing had changed. None of them had moved. No one had joined their number.

Sally sank back into her chair with a long sight, but she could already feel the worry knotting in her stomach. She shook her head. It couldn’t be them. It couldn’t. Besides, she and Larry had gone to the Wester Drumlins house just a few weeks ago, to check that the bulb in the cellar hadn’t burned out. The Weeping Angels were still there, still screaming into oblivion. And she hoped they’d stay that way to the end of time.

 

**Chapter One**

Even from the end of the drive, John Watson had to admit the Wester Drumlins house looked impressive. It also looked as though it should have been torn down years ago; he wondered why on earth it was still standing. “Hell of a place for a murder,” he remarked conversationally.

“Hardly,” Sherlock Holmes replied with a scoff. “Abandoned structures are ideal for hiding bodies, particularly one that’s been broken into as often as this one.” He walked up to one of the front gates, a rusting structure festooned with broken chains and a couple of keep out notices. He began gesturing at various parts of the gate, carrying on as he usually did. “Bits of fabrics from jeans, trousers, t-shirts, a bit of shoelace. I can see why Lestrade phoned me.”

“I think Lestrade phoned you because of the body,” John replied, “which is in the house.”

“Lestrade phoned because he’s an idiot who doesn’t know what to do with a dead body,” Sherlock responded. “Let’s go and see why.” He turned away from the gate and swept up the drive, his coat flying out in his wake. John shook his head and followed.

The house looked even more dilapidated up close, its garden overgrown right up to the doors, the windows boarded over and broken in places. The front doors were rusted at the hinges and looked as though they’d been forced more than few times over the years. John and Sherlock accepted latex gloves from one of the lieutenants outside. She gave Sherlock a look, but nodded them inside the house. “It’s just inside, you can’t miss it.”

Lestrade met them right inside the doors. “There you are. Where the hell’ve you been?”

“In a cab,” Sherlock said. “And what have you called me for this time, Inspector?”

“He’s in here,” Lestrade said, pointing them towards a room off the front hall. “And I will warn you he’s a bit of a mess.”

Sherlock entered the room ahead of them, and stopped almost immediately, muttering, “Interesting.” John followed Lestrade into the room, expecting almost anything but what he saw.

A young man lay sprawled on the floor, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were closed, and he might have looked peaceful if the top of his head hadn’t been ripped clean off. His brain was exposed, but even that looked wrong, as though someone had attacked it with a razor, unevenly shearing bits off the outside, leaving behind a pulpy, withered mass of yellow-gray tissue.

John looked away. “Bloody hell.”

“That’s what I said,” Lestrade replied. “We’ve already had three people get sick, and Anderson had to leave the room for a sit down.”

Sherlock stooped over the man’s head. “Name?”

“Jerrod Cooper, according to his driving license. Twenty-seven years old. Couple of kids found him a few hours ago.”

“Hell,” John muttered.

“And the top of his head?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade blinked. “The what?”

“The top of his head, I assume it didn’t wander off on its own,” Sherlock said. “The killer wasn’t interested in it, if the state of his skull is any indication. John?”

John sighed. There was no point in arguing, then. He squatted down opposite Sherlock and examined the rough edge of Cooper’s skull, the skin bloodied and cracked. “Looks like multiple fractures along the forehead,” he said. “Blunt force trauma to the head, maybe. The breaks are cleaner along the temple.”

“We’ve already ruled out blunt force as the cause of death,” Lestrade said. 

“Of course,” John said, straightening up. It was obvious that Cooper had had his neck broken, which made his open skull all the more chilling. 

“If you could both stop pointing out the obvious, please,” Sherlock said from the floor. He remained bent over the dead man, examining the brain before turning his attention to the man’s broken neck. John and Lestrade shared a look, and then John watched as Sherlock continued his examination of the body.

He touched something at the man’s neck, then turned his attention to the rest of the body, pressing gently as the pockets of his coat and trousers. He produced a number of items from the pockets, among them a small torch and a face mask, of all things. A few moments later, he paused and reached carefully under the body to pull out a digital camera. He left the items on the floor next to the body, then glanced up at Lestrade and John.

“Any sign of his mobile?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Lestrade said. “What have you got?”

Sherlock straightened up. “Not much. Mr. Cooper was an urban explorer and an amateur photographer, though not particularly well moneyed. The camera’s a decent model, a few years old and in good enough shape considering he keeps it in his pocket more often than not. The mask and the torch are for breaking into old buildings; urban explorers use masks to keep from inhaling asbestos and the like.”

“So that explains what he was doing here,” Lestrade said. “The camera still working?”

“You’re welcome to check if you like,” Sherlock said. “If nothing else you should be able to find a time of death, he was probably taking photos before he was killed.”

“Could he have a picture of his attacker?” asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not likely. He was killed from behind, almost instantly. The only attack was the snapping of his neck.”

Lestrade bent to pick up the camera. “And what about the brain?” 

“Killer took it as a trophy, I assume,” Sherlock replied. “Curious they didn’t take the whole thing.”

John glanced down at the body again, studying what remained of Jerrod Cooper’s brain. “It looks like they stripped off his cerebral cortex.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Seat of thought, memory, consciousness. The killer might be trying to tell us something.”

“About what?” Lestrade asked.

“About his choices, about why he took it, I don’t know yet, I’ve not got enough data.” Sherlock knelt by Cooper’s head again, frowning as he studied the ragged edges of his skull. “And I assume you’re going to ask me about the writing on the wall now?”

“The what?” John asked, and Lestrade nodded at the wall above the body.

The wall had been graffitied, but as John read the words, he wasn’t sure if it was graffiti or a message, albeit a very strange one:

BEWARE  
THE WEEPING ANGEL  
OH, AND DUCK  
NO, SERIOUSLY, DUCK!  
SALLY SPARROW  
DUCK, NOW!  
LOVE FROM  
THE DOCTOR  
(1969)

The writing looked old, and John might have dismissed it as nonsense if the name Sally Sparrow had not been circled in what he could only assume was the dead man’s blood. 

“Is it a message from the killer?” Lestrade asked.

“Doubt it,” Sherlock said. “The writing preceded the killing by quite a few years, the killer just used what was already here. Might be a warning. Have there been any drugs busts in this area?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade replied. “There were around a dozen disappearances from this area from the seventies up to a few years ago, but they all went cold, and we were never able to connect them.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned back to the wall. “Well. I’ll let you get back to your work here, Inspector. John.” He gave Lestrade a brief nod, then swept out of the room. John followed him, trailed closely by Lestrade.

“Wait, what are you going to do?”

“Decipher that message, if it’s of any relevance,” Sherlock replied, making his way through the front doors. “Find Sally Sparrow. Find out who the Weeping Angel and the Doctor are, if I can.”

“If Sally Sparrow’s the next victim—“

Sherlock stopped and turned around to face Lestrade. “If Sally Sparrow was the next victim, it’s only because the killer wants you to know it.”

“Sherlock, that message was written in 1969,” John said. “Sally Sparrow might not even be alive.”

“If she’s dead, then we’ve ruled her out as the next victim,” Sherlock replied. “Continue your investigation, Inspector. Text me if you find anything interesting.” He started down the drive again.

“I’ll keep you posted if he finds anything,” John said to Lestrade.

“Thanks.”

“Not at all,” John said. They shook hands, and John hurried down the drive to catch up with Sherlock. “So what are we doing?” he asked.

“Finding Sally Sparrow,” Sherlock replied, pulling out his mobile and tapping away. “And with a name like that, it shouldn’t take us long.”

***

Four days had passed since the phone call. Sally hadn’t gotten any further messages from that number, which she hoped was good news. The shop had been quiet for much of the morning, which left Sally in some peace as she worked on placing orders for next month. Larry had gone up to the flat to get lunch and check the post.

The bell above the door beeped, and Sally looked up to see two men enter the shop, a tall fellow in a dark coat and his sandy-haired friend. They walked over to the rack of used books by the front window, apparently browsing, though Sally could hear them talking to each other.

She let them be as she finished up the order form for more 2013 day planners. The end of the year was coming on fast, and the planners had been selling out fairly quickly. The two men were still standing at the books rack when she finished, so she asked, “Can I help you boys find anything?”

They turned, and the man in the coat strode up to the counter, trailed by his friend. “Actually, yes,” he said. “We’re looking for Sally Sparrow.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” she replied. “I’m Sally Sparrow. What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to know about the Wester Drumlins house.”

Sally froze. Her grip on her pen tightened, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed. “I took some photographs there a few years back. What do you want to know?”

They want to know why my name’s written on the wall, she thought. It was the only reason they could be asking, the only reason anyone might ask her about that place. But why?

“Your name’s written on a wall there, I thought it might be relevant.”

Sally blinked. “Relevant to what?”

“The murder investigation,” the man replied shortly.

“There was a murder there a few days ago,” his friend cut in, giving the taller man a look. “The killer left the body under the graffiti there, and they, uh, they drew some attention to your name. We were wondering if you might be able to tell us anything about it?”

Sally barely heard him. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. She’d been so careful, checking on them again and again even though that whole bloody house gave her nightmares. And now someone was dead, and they were coming after her again. She didn’t know how, but they had to be. Part of her wanted run to the front to check the street again, like she had the other night, but the two men were staring at her. The shorter one looked almost concerned, but his friend just stared, his piercing gaze making her feel strangely exposed.

She took a deep breath, shaking her head. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. Are you two with the police?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the taller one said. “Are you planning on telling us what happened at Wester Drumlins?”

“Yes,” Sally replied icily, glaring at him. “If you’ll give me a moment.” She put her pen down and pushed the order forms to the side, turning things over in her mind. They’re never going to believe me, she thought. She was certain they had at least one of the DVDs with the Doctor’s Easter egg message on it here in the shop, but everything else—the transcript, Cathy’s letter and photographs, even Billy’s obituary—she had given to the Doctor.

But they were asking, so she’d do her best. “Hold on,” she said to the men. “I’ve got to get something out of the back, I’ll be right back.”

She turned around to go through the curtain to the back room, only to run straight into Larry. She backed away immediately, right up to the counter. Larry stared at her. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she answered. “Laptop’s still hooked up in the back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Larry said slowly. He glanced over her shoulder at the two men behind the counter. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve got some questions,” Sally said, moving past him into the back room. “What came in the post?” she asked as she unhooked the laptop from its charger. She’d seen a couple of envelopes in his hands.

“Letter for you,” he replied as she came back through the door. “And this,” he continued, holding up a beaten manila envelope. “Do you know anyone named Sherlock Holmes?”

Sally frowned. “No. Who’s Sherlock Holmes?”

“I am,” said the man in the dark coat. He held out his hand for the envelope, which Larry slowly handed over.

“What’s… going on?” Larry asked slowly.

“Not sure,” Sally replied, setting the laptop down on the counter and taking her letter. She glanced at the envelope before opening it. No return address, and the slanted, looping handwriting on the front was unfamiliar. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper, folded neatly in half.

_Sally,_

_You’re going to have to trust him.  
All the best of luck to you._

_Love,  
The Doctor_

She glanced up at Sherlock Holmes, who was examining the manila envelope with a great deal of care. She thought about the murder at Wester Drumlins, and the phone call she’d gotten the other night. Something was starting, and it wasn’t going to be good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this scrap of a story. This is more or less all I've written down for this idea, which I got in 2012 or 2013. Like a lot of people, I enjoyed the idea of Steven Moffat's two shows (at the time) crossing over, but I decided I want to go with a less obvious "in" than just having the Doctor and Company turn up in the middle of one of Sherlock's cases. Enter Sally Sparrow and the Weeping Angels.
> 
> Part of the reason I abandoned this story was because I couldn't figure out how to get the plot to work exactly. I had ideas--for example, the envelope Sherlock receives at the end there is full of Sally's Angel research from the end of "Blink"--but couldn't get them to cohere.
> 
> At any rate, thank you for reading my little folly. I hope you enjoyed what there was of it.


End file.
